White Lit Wall
by Liss1
Summary: Dude! chapter 12! it's been a nice, long vacation for WLW, and it had a wonderful time...but now it's back. dun dun dun.
1. Self Inflicted Arsenal

Disclaimer: I wish.  
  
Author's Note: The song lyrics I used are from Cary Shield's band Thieves Crossing (they rock buy their cd...) I want to dedicate this to...EVERYONE who has ever reviewed ANY of my stories (there aren't many of you!!! Tsk tsk tsk...) Also especially to CJ...you're awesome, thank you so much, I think you've reviewed every single one of my fics, and keep me wanting to write! You're one of my best friends ever and I love you!! (NO bullshit)  
  
White Lit Wall  
  
I enter the loft to see Mark sitting on the couch with a notepad on his lap. He's watching the images projected on the wall intently and rapidly jotting down notes every few seconds.  
  
"Hey Mark." I walk over and sit on the other side of the couch.  
  
Without looking away from his film or yellow lined paper, he absently replies. "Hey." He continues to write quickly.  
  
"Uhh...what's up?" I attempt to start a conversation with him.  
  
Mark continues writing, pausing shortly to push up his glasses, and then returns to his notes. "Nothing, just working."  
  
"Anything new? Anyone call?"  
  
"No and no, not that I noticed."  
  
"Not that you noticed? You know that loud sound that we hear every so often, it comes from that white thing with the buttons? That means something Mark..." I smile, trying not to get frustrated, and walk to the answering machine.  
  
"I turned the ringer off, I've been working." Mark continues to glance up at the wall, then back down at his paper. He flips to yet another clean page.  
  
"Damn Mark, how long have you had the ringer off? Six messages..." I press the button and wait for the recordings to play. I listen to the messages, same people as usual. "Maureen, Maureen, Collins, Maureen, Mark's mom, Maureen." I call over to Mark. "God, would you just call Maureen back? This could be important!" I laugh at my own joke. "She could be going straight."  
  
"Yea. Listen, I hate to be rude, but I'm trying to work." Mark looks up at me for the first time.  
  
"You've been working for four days straight. I'm just trying to have a little conversation, you haven't spoken in three."  
  
"Because, as you can see, I'm busy."  
  
I walk to the projector and switch it off. "Not anymore."  
  
Mark glares at me. "I was in the middle of something."  
  
I shrug. "And now you're not. Now you can talk to me and tell me what's wrong."  
  
"Nothing's wrong."  
  
"Bullshit. You haven't slept or spoken in God knows how long. I don't think you've moved from this couch in a week."  
  
"I've just had a lot of ideas lately."  
  
"Ideas that you'd forget if you turned the goddamn projector off for 10 minutes?"  
  
"Don't start with me Roger. Do I have to mention a little something I like to call 'the infamous six month silence'?"  
  
"I had a reason for that Mark. You can't compare the two, I just found out I had an incurable disease, my girlfriend killed herself, and I had to get myself through withdrawal from a life-consuming addiction. I think I was justified. You've got nothing. We're not fighting, no one close to you has died recently, and you're healthy. The only potential problem you have is you pending loss of sanity if you stay on this couch."  
  
"Oh you know me so well Roger. Because you see me every day and you ask how I am, and I don't have a bandage on my wrist, I obviously have no problems and no reason to be a little distracted. I told you, I'm just working, it doesn't mean I'm depressed."  
  
"You think I don't know what it means to stay awake for days, trying to finish something that just doesn't end up right? It makes you think Mark, it makes you think a lot, about everything. I can tell there's something bothering you...but if you don't want to talk about it that's fine. Just tell me, don't say you're fine."  
  
"According to you, Roger, I'm SUPPOSED to be fine. I have absolutely NO reason to just be alone for a little while, working on a film that I haven't touched for almost a YEAR."  
  
"You just want to be alone for a little while? YOU'RE ALONE ALL THE TIME MARK, DON'T PRETEND THIS IS SOMETHING NEW." My voice echoes through the loft, hopefully making him think a little.  
  
"I DON'T NEED TO PRETEND ROGER. YOU DO ENOUGH PRETENDING FOR THE BOTH OF US."  
  
"What the fuck are you talking about? I'm TRYING to get you to talk to me about what's wrong, and you're telling me nothing! I know that's not true!"  
  
"Fuck you." Mark, flustered, stands and throws his notepad to the ground, retreating to his room and slamming the door behind him.  
  
I flop on the couch, defeated. I look down to the floor, at the abandoned yellow pad, covered in Mark's almost incoherent scribbling. My curiosity gets the best of me, and I pick it up, flipping to the first page, scanning through sentences, looking for clues.  
  
The first page is covered in technical gibberish, scenes he wants to get rid of, edit, or add in. Skipping through most of it, I skim through half of the next page until I see a break in the unorganized format. There is a large blank space, and then the beginning of what seems to be one long, unfinished thought. Obviously inspired by whatever he was watching on the wall, Mark's emotion-fueled writing captivates me as I read through the thoughts I never knew my roommate had.  
  
'all these shots of my "friends". happy, laughing, smiling, talking to each other...ignoring the camera like I always told them to. I never told them to ignore me. It's like they started to make an effort but just gave up when they realized I'm not the easiest person to be friends with. Collins tries a little, I think...or at least he's good at pretending he cares. Maureen just outright uses me, no use in trying to believe anything else. Mimi knows me by association, and therefore has no need to converse with me, unless she needs advice about Roger. He's a whole other story. Joanne I barely even know...small talk consumes us until there's nothing left to discuss.'  
  
I read and wonder why I'm not discussed in the paragraph, only that I'm a "whole other story". I continue and find my questions answered on the next page.  
  
'Roger. He thinks he's doing so well. Asks me how I am and figures that's enough...that because he says three words to me every day, I believe he cares. I don't think he realizes I'm not stupid. He doesn't care...not as much as I would want him to. He'd probably be a little upset if I killed myself or something...but until his life is not taken over by the presence of his goddess Mimi, I'm just the kid upstairs who he used to care about. I'm watching them...kissing and hugging and laughing and crying, but always together. Whether they're fighting or apologizing, they're together. I've watched this clip about 5 times by now...I don't know why when I know how much it upsets me. I shouldn't care. I should be happy for him. I should see that he finally has someone to live for, and be glad for that. I guess I don't understand why I can't be the person he lives for. I don't understand why I'm not enough. I don't understand why she gets to be the one, when it's all I've wanted for the past 4 years.'  
  
I stare at the words until the letters begin to blur in front of me. I drop the pad back to the floor and glance at Mark's door, making sure it's still shut. I flick the projector back on and watch what Mark has cut together.  
  
Images of me and Mimi flash in front of me, hugging, kissing, fighting, making up. Between each scene, mostly the ones of Mimi and me, a single shot of Mark appears. First of him standing alone against a wall, then the frames begin to get closer, until after about 8 shots, the film is just two still frame pictures, flashing one after the other, so rapidly, I shiver nervously. A close-up of me passionately kissing Mimi flashes to an eerie zoom of Mark's eyes. The pictures continue to flicker until the shot of Mark's eyes remain still. A single tear falls from one eye, and the screen goes blank. I stare at the white lit wall numbly, not knowing what to think. I turn to flip the projector off, and notice a small portable tape player sitting on the table, the pause button pressed down. I slowly reach and put the headphones on, and press the button, only to hear a gig I vaguely remember from years before. My own voice pierces the silence with words I've long forgotten.  
  
"...goodbye" The last chord of an old song plays, and I listens to myself speak. "Thanks a lot. Before we play our last song, I just personally want to thank someone. My best friend: Mark. Mark, you've helped me so much, and I want to let you know that I appreciate everything you do for me. Thanks man...I love you...you're like a brother to me." The crowd can be heard underneath my little speech, and I try to remember the night I said all that. It was before everything. I had just started doing some occasional smack, but he didn't know yet. I hadn't met April. None of my real problems had even begun, and I was already grateful for his presence. The last song of my set begins, and I listen intently, having forgotten the lyrics to my own music. "I can feel your eyes upon my face, all the way from over here. Although I'm staring into space, you know something's wrong with me my dear..." I wonder if he thought I had written that song for him. Did I? Who was I thinking of as I jotted those lyrics?  
  
I snap back to reality and press stop. I take the headphones off and knock on Mark's door. "Mark?"  
  
"Fuck off!"  
  
"Mark please, I just want to talk to you!"  
  
The door snaps open and Mark glares at me. "What?"  
  
"Look, I'm sorry...for yelling...for getting upset."  
  
He sighs and drops his glare. "Yea...it's ok."  
  
"No, it's not. I shouldn't have gotten so upset. I was just...worried."  
  
"Yea, I know. Thank you."  
  
I nod in acceptance, and try my hardest to word the next question. "Is there...anything, you wanted to tell me?"  
  
"What do you mean?" He walks to the couch and sits down. He glances at the projector and tilts his head, squinting.  
  
"You watched my film."  
  
"I...what?"  
  
"You watched my film. I stopped it before the end. The back spool is full, you watched the rest of it." Fuck. I should have counted on him being so observant.  
  
"Mark I...I just wanted to know what you were thinking."  
  
"Well now you do! YOU WATCHED MY FUCKING FILM ROGER! What the fuck? I don't read your songs until you say it's ok, or at least perform them...how could you pry into my life like this?!"  
  
"BECAUSE YOU WON'T TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON! WHAT OTHER CHOICE DO I HAVE?!"  
  
"To leave me the FUCK alone! Don't worry about me! You seem to be good at that!"  
  
"FUCK YOU MARK. I'VE BEEN TRYING SO HARD, YOU KNOW THAT!"  
  
"I KNOW!" He looks down and his voice softens. " I fucking know. And that's why..." he sees the notepad in a different position on the floor. "Of course, you read those too..." He looks up at me with the saddest eyes I have ever seen. They reflect pain, sorrow, regret, love. "And that's why I love you so fucking much. Because just when I start to give up on you completely..." he starts to cry, and I want to turn and run. I haven't seen Mark cry, not since his dad...and especially not because of me. "you turn around and remember I'm here and you care about me and you try to figure out what I'm going through and you try so fucking hard that I..." He lets out a deep sob. "I fall in love with you all over again."  
  
He stands in front of me, crying and fighting for a deep, even breath. I'm empty. I don't know what to say, what to do. Somehow, things have changed. Yet at the same time, everything's the same, just as it was. I fight my impulse to run, and instead take a step towards him. I open my arms and just hold him while he sobs. 


	2. Even a River Can Break

I sit on the couch, with Mark's head in my lap. His face is still tear stained, but peaceful now that he's resting. I turn at the sound of the door to see Mimi walk through. She walks over to me and smiles. When she gets close enough to see Mark curled up, sleeping on me, her smile turns to a concerned frown. She whispers as not to wake him up.  
  
"Is he ok? What happened?"  
  
"He'll be fine...he just, needed someone to stay with him for a while."  
  
"Did something happen?"  
  
"I guess you could say that..." I look at her concerned face and can't help but smile at how much she cares.  
  
"What do you mean? Is he...he didn't..." She doesn't have to finish her sentence, I know what she's asking.  
  
"No. He didn't..." I lower my voice and mumble to myself "thank God..."  
  
"All right. Well if you two need some time alone, I'm on my way to work anyways."  
  
I start to get up. "Baby I can..."  
  
"No. He needs you. Stay here, I'll see you later. Love you."  
  
She leans in and gives me a quick kiss before turning to leave.  
  
"Love you too." I call to her while watching Mark's eyelids flutter. I can't help but watch his chest rise and fall rhythmically as he sleeps. The silence in the loft begins to close in on me, but for the first time ever, it doesn't scare me. For once, I can sit still in the heavy silence and feel safe. It worries me to think it, but maybe this weight on my lap is what keeps me so safe. I continue to listen to his breathing, the soft sound triggers something in my memory, and I sing quietly to myself a song that I don't know. I must have heard it once, but I'm not sure where.  
  
'Cause I want nothing more than  
  
To sit outside your door  
  
And listen to your breathing  
  
It's where I want to be, yea  
  
It's where I want to be...  
  
What am I doing? Why do the simple breaths of my best friend initiate thoughts of distant songs with deep lyrics? I decide to shake it off and reach over to see the start of Mark's film. I fix the spools the best I know how so it will play from the beginning, and turn the projector on.  
  
The weight on my legs lifts for a second, and I know Mark is awake. Instead of sitting up however, he resettles, pretending he is still asleep, even though I know he's watching with me.  
  
The start and middle of the film is far less disturbing than what I saw earlier. Instead of bitter jealousy and aching, the shots exude an aura of love, friendship, and fond memories that sadden me only because I know they can never be relived. Frame after frame, Mark and I laugh. We fight, we hug, and we talk. Every scene of the two of us is filmed from a single position, the times when Mark had his camera on the tripod. He wouldn't normally film himself unless it was perched on that trusty old piece of equipment. Some parts show one of us on screen, responding to the other, who's not in the camera range. It almost scares me, I think, to see our reactions to the other out of context.  
  
Watching most of my life unfold before me, I forget why I'm sitting here, why my best friend is resting his head on my lap, all the reasons why I should leave. I say most of my life only because my childhood meant nothing to me. I barely even remember any of it with the mental block. I did all of my growing up after I met Mark. He's taught me so much...  
  
Scenes of Mark and I become few and far between as they are replaced with shots of me and April. Sharp, but cushioned ups and downs of Mark's shoulders remind me that he's awake. Unconsciously I rub his back, trying to soothe his fragile nerves. I keep my eyes on the wall and continue to try and comfort Mark, until the end of the film, the part I remember, comes up again. I silently and swiftly flick the projector off and stare at the now empty wall space. Mark is breathing more regularly now, an erratic gasp breaking the steady cycle every once in a while. As I attempt to create some quiet within my roommate's small body, I realize that maybe this means more to him than it does to me. Maybe this is the kind of thing that got me into this mess. I stand up slowly, carefully moving Mark's head back to the couch  
  
I whisper to him gently. "I've got to...go out for a while, I'll be back soon."  
  
"You sure?" His voice croaks slightly with exhaustion.  
  
"Yea, I'm sure. I'll see you in a little while. Get some rest." I exit the loft with only a single glance back at my roommate...friend. Best friend. Nothing more, nothing less. Right? 


	3. Bought Some Time To Think

The brisk air hits me lightly as I exit the building. It's the perfect temperature outside. Not too hot, not too cold. Perfect 'just-warm-enough- to-go-without-a-jacket' weather. I make my way swiftly down the street, towards what, I don't know. I just have to leave the loft for a while.  
  
What's going on? Mark's in love with me. Mark's been in love with me for four years. How am I supposed to react to that? Should I ignore that he said anything? Should I pretend everything is normal? I can't, everything's not normal. Everything is the opposite of normal. My best friend is in love with me. I've caught myself actually wondering if maybe I'm in love with him too. Every time I think about my girlfriend, all I can see are my best friend's eyes, looking at me with hope and fear and longing. Everything is the opposite of normal.  
  
I reach a small park and find a bench. I sit and space out, trying to sort everything out in my mind. I look around the spacious area and see plenty of people enjoying the weather. A couple sits on the bench about 30 feet across from me. They're close and whispering and sneaking small kisses. They remind me of Mimi and I when we first began dating. I think about how excited we were to have each other back then. Every time we kissed was like the first, every time we touched there was that...that feeling. I think that feeling might be gone, or at least diminished. When she kissed me earlier, I didn't feel anything except a pair of random lips on my cheek, the same sensation of the kiss of a grandmother, or sister. The "feeling", the one I've missed so much...I'm scared of how I found it today. Not when Mimi kissed me, not when she told me she loved me. I got that feeling as soon as Mark started crying, when I rubbed his back to calm him.  
  
This is insane. That's it, I must be going crazy. The illness must be getting to me. I'm not in love with Mark. I never was, and I never will be. He's my best friend, and that's it. He's a great best friend, sure as hell better than anything I deserve. He's always been there for me, no matter how much shit I put him through. He worries about me non-stop, he cares about me constantly. He was the first one to really show me what unconditional love is all about.  
  
And there I go again, linking all these thoughts about love to him. I'm not in love with Mark. I can't be in love with Mark. I shouldn't have to convince myself...I'm perfectly secure in the fact that I'm not in love with him.  
  
So why the hell am I sitting in a park full of lost tourists and lustful couples, thinking about him? I stand abruptly and run a hand through my hair, the tell-tale sign that I'm nervous. Nervous about what? Facing him? Facing her? Facing myself?  
  
I begin to walk the opposite way I came, heading home. The route is short and straight, so I take a couple turns, purposely losing myself for a little bit longer. I'm not ready to face whatever is to come, and whatever that is, it's waiting for me in that loft. 


	4. I Still Don't Know What's Good For Me

I open the door to see Mark sitting at the table, blowing on a spoon full of soup. He looks at me and gives me his half smile. His 'I-don't-know-what- you-think-about-me-right-now-but-I'm-still-your-best-friend' smile. I take a deep breath and make my way over to the table. I sit across from him and grab a napkin to fidget with.  
  
"Mark." I look at the white paper in my hands, folding and tearing and mutilating it, then back at him, into those hopeful, frightened eyes that have been on the foreground of my mind for the last hour or so.  
  
"Roger." His smile increases a little, then he looks down as well, suddenly fascinated with the color of his chicken noodle.  
  
"Honestly Mark, I don't know what to say." I continue speaking, staring at my mangled napkin the entire time. I can't look at him. I don't want to look at him. I don't want to look at him because it will stop me from saying what I know I have to say next. "I've been thinking, and...I can't do this Mark. I can't do this to you, I can't do it to myself, and I can't do it to us. I just...can't do it." I begin to get emotional, and Mark can sense it, like he always does. He scoots to the chair next to me and puts a hand on my arm, supporting me when by his face I can tell he's the one who could use it.  
  
"What, Roger? What can't you do?" His voice is soft and his eyes are tearing.  
  
Yet another thing I can't do adds itself to the list. I can't make him cry.  
  
"Any of this...I can't stay here with you knowing the way you feel about me..." I see his face fall and he swallows the lump I know has formed in his throat. His tears are about to fall and I take the hand on my arm into my own. "Mark...I can't stay here...knowing I feel the same way."  
  
He looks at me like I have two heads and I have to resist the urge to laugh.  
  
"I...what?" He's confused, almost as much as me. I wasn't planning on telling him that, I didn't even think it was true, until I saw him sitting there, comforting me, while his own eyes tingled with the threat of bitter tears he would do almost anything to hide.  
  
"I feel the same way Mark, but there's no way. It's just not possible, and I don't think I could stay here knowing that, and knowing how we both feel. I'm sorry." My apology is weak, and so am I. He's my best friend. The one person who has ever cared about me, made me feel like I mattered. And here I am, lying to him and to myself, running away like always.  
  
He squeezes my hand and clears his throat. "Roger, believe me, I've spent more time than I should have thinking about this. It is possible...if you...really do feel the way you say you do, then what's the problem?" He looks so hopeful, optimistic even.  
  
"It's not! Mark do you realize what we'd be getting ourselves into? I have a girlfriend. I have AIDS. I have some inescapable dysfunction that hurts everyone I care about. Ever. You know me Mark! You know nothing works for me."  
  
"I know exactly what we'd be getting ourselves into. I've wanted to get myself into it for a long time. Mimi would understand. If she loves you the way...the way I do, she'd only want you to be happy. How do you think I've dealt with this for four years? And...AIDS...I don't care Roger. I love you, and I love every part of you. That disease is just...it's a part of you, and I'm willing to deal with it just like all your other bad qualities." He smiles, and I playfully hit his arm.  
  
"Hey! What bad qualities? I'm an angel!" I smile innocently and this time he hits me, laughing.  
  
"Yea...sure." He shakes the joke off, and continues trying to convince me we're worth it. "Nothing works for you? You're smart, you're talented, you've got great friends..." he smiles again. "You're..." he blushes and looks away. "Good looking. Roger, I would give anything to have things 'not work' for me as much as they 'don't work' for you. It could work Roger, you just have to give it a chance, give me a chance."  
  
I just watch him. I'm listening to him as well, and I'm comprehending everything he says, but mostly I'm just watching him. His eyes get darker when he's passionate. He talks faster, and his hands move a lot. He has one small vein on the right side of his forehead that strains and pops out a little when he's making a point. How can I refuse him? How can I turn away from something so honest, so real, so...beautiful? His face is pleading. 'give me a chance' echoes in my head accompanied by those clear, strong brown eyes.  
  
"Mark...I...I want to give you a chance, believe me I do...and I will. I promise I won't fuck this up...not this time. Just, give me some time? Let me talk to Mimi? Let everything settle?"  
  
He looks up at me, and smiles. He's always been able to understand everything I'm trying to say with my less-than-brilliant dialogue. He nods slowly and squeezes my hand again. "I'm proud of you Roger." I look down and probably blush, but for the first time in a long while...I'm proud of myself. 


	5. Can I Muster Up Goodbye?

I find myself knocking on Mimi's door. I never knock on Mimi's door. She opens it promptly and gives me a small smile. She seems sad, wearing one of those obviously fake smiles that were never supposed to fool you in the first place.  
  
"Hey." She speaks sullenly, and moves to shut the door behind me, instead of giving me the usual quick kiss upon my entrance.  
  
"Hey." I'm slow to answer, dreading the impending conversation. She knows I've sensed her somber state, and she knows I hate beating around the bush with these things. "What's wrong?"  
  
She looks away from me and then back up, her tired eyes catching my own. She must be able to sense that there's no room for bullshit, and so she answers matter-of-factly...something I've always loved about her. "I don't know. But there's something...you feel it? Something seems different, with you..." she looks down and rephrases. "with us."  
  
I decide to shed the skin of 'Run Away Roger' and use this opportunity to tell her exactly what's going on. "There is...something different." She looks confused and I must look terrified. Hell, I am terrified.  
  
"No, don't. Roger...I've noticed it, and not just recently. It's been going on for a long time, and I want you to know that I understand. I love you, and I always will, but I just...I think it's time to bring this to an end. I'm sorry, and I would do anything to keep from hurting you, but this is for the best." She looks at me, and can probably see that I'm shocked. She smiles, for real this time, and tries to lighten the mood. "And don't you go pretending that you haven't noticed it too. I want you to know that it's ok. I hope you can forgive me."  
  
I don't know what to say. Isn't this what I wanted? Isn't this the whole reason I came to talk to her? Then why does it feel like I'm being pulled inside out? I was supposed to be the one to end it. I was supposed to be the comforting one, telling her to forgive me and that I still love her. Think Roger...don't fuck this up...just leave it alone. Should I just leave it where it is? But what does she sense? The only difference I know of is Mark...she couldn't know...could she?  
  
"Mimi, I..." She looks at me with eyes that are sad, but seemingly trusting and understanding.  
  
"Yea?" Her face suddenly seems innocent and naïve, like nothing I've ever seen.  
  
"You're right. I'm sorry." I step forward and hug her, and she hugs me back. She rubs my back soothingly, and I wonder when she became so supportive. I pull back and look at her honestly. "I love you."  
  
"I love you too." She smiles and kisses me on the cheek, then turns and walks to her room, leaving an open invitation for me to follow her. When I get to her door, I see a half-filled suitcase on her bed, and she continues to pack.  
  
"Where are you going?" I'm confused.  
  
"I'm...I'm leaving. It's only temporary. I want to be your friend Roger, I do. I just think that I'll need some time alone if that can ever happen." I honestly don't know when she got so smart. For some reason, I'm not too upset, and I understand how she's thinking. I nod slowly, trying to comprehend everything that's happening at once.  
  
"Going anywhere special?" I slip back into old habits and stand next to her bag, folding the clothes she's thrown in, and replacing them neatly.  
  
"I'm gonna stay with a friend from school, upstate." I'm surprised, and can't help but smile and let out a small laugh.  
  
"Mimi Marquez, upstate." She laughs and playfully hits my shoulder.  
  
"Hey, you never know, maybe I'll become a country gal." Her smile has changed so much. It used to be able to light up a room. She used to smile so big she could actually pretend she was happy. Now, she smiles smaller, but they're warm, and honest, and she doesn't need to pretend anymore. I know this will be good for her.  
  
"Yea, maybe." I smile back, and walk towards her. I hug her once again. "I've got to go. Come see me before you leave?"  
  
"Of course." She seems reluctant to let go, but I can tell she knows she has to.  
  
I look back once before opening the door to her apartment and smile sorrowfully. I loved her, and I still love her, but there's just something...someone...I need more.  
  
I reach my door and push it open slowly. I feel like I'm just in a daze, everything's different. I want to feel alone, but I refuse to let myself, because I know I'm not. Mark's sitting on the couch, and he stands to greet me.  
  
"Hey. How'd it go?" He asks gently, not knowing what kind of reaction I'll have. I hate myself for doing this to him, for making him feel that he has to be careful of what he says around me. I'd do anything to take back all the yelling and screaming and insults I've put him through.  
  
I walk over to the other end of the couch and sit down. I'm still somewhat numb; I don't think anything's registered yet. "She broke up with me."  
  
"I'm sorry...I mean...well, is this good, or bad?" He's stuttering, and when he does, he repositions his hands every time he tries to form a sentence. I smile slightly.  
  
"I...I don't know."  
  
He looks down and finds a spot on the floor to focus on. "Oh."  
  
I continue, trying to make him understand. "I mean...I guess it's why I went down there in the first place, but she broke up with me. I don't think I was ready for that."  
  
He looks back at me and speaks softly, trying not to prod. "Is she mad? Did she give you a reason?"  
  
"Only that she's sensed something between us for a while now, and it's time to let go. And she's not mad...at all actually...but she's leaving."  
  
"She...what?"  
  
"She's going upstate for a while, just to get away until we can be friends...that's what she said." Mark smiles and sits next to me on the couch. "Sounds like she's really matured." He looks at me. "Sounds like you have too. I'm proud of you Roge." He gives me a hug and rubs my back, reminding me of Mimi just a few minutes ago. I inhale his scent and all I can think is how it's so...not Mimi. I close my eyes and think again. This time, all I can think is how it's so...Mark. 


	6. How Do You Know When to Let Go?

The doorknob is turning from the outside, and I wonder why neither Mark nor myself ever think to lock it. It's not like we live in the safest of neighborhoods. Then again, what do we have worth stealing? Contrary to the paranoid belief we're about to be killed, Mimi pops her head into the loft and sees me staring at the door.  
  
"Can I come in?" She's quiet.  
  
"Yea...what's up?" I know exactly what's up. What do I say?  
  
She looks around and then moves close to me. "I'm going. I wanted to...give you this, and to say..." She hands me a white envelope and tries to look strong.  
  
"Goodbye?" I attempt at finishing her sentence.  
  
"No. Just that, I'll see you in a while, and I'll keep in touch." She hugs me, and I hug her back. She doesn't seem as warm as usual. I hope she's ok. She gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and before I know it, is waving from the doorway. I hear retreating footsteps go down the hallway, then hurry back. Her head appears in the doorway one more time. "Roger?"  
  
"Yea?"  
  
"Never goodbye." With that she leaves one final time, her heels clicking down the stairs, leaving me with a thin white envelope and what must have been a lost look on my face.  
  
A few minutes pass before I can bring myself to open the envelope and read the page she has written.  
  
Roger-  
  
I don't know what to write to make this normal. I don't know what to tell you to make you understand that I love you and this is all for the best. I know you're confused. So am I. But I know, and you know, that there's someone else who needs you. Yea...I saw it. How could I not? But I've thought it over...believe me I have. And I think I understand. You two are incomplete without each other, and I refuse to stand in the way of that. I love you Roger, but so does he. I won't be gone for too long, and if I am, call me and I'll come back. I promise. Good luck baby. You'll make it, and I'll see you as soon as I can.  
  
Con todo mi corazon,  
  
Mimi.  
  
I can't help but smile sadly at the last line. Every time I asked her if she loved me, she'd just say "con todo mi corazon." God I loved her. I still do. But now...I'm doing the right thing. I have to be doing the right thing. There's no way Mark could be wrong. Even Mimi saw it, even Mimi said she understood. She was never wrong. Seemingly reading my mind, the door to his room opens and Mark walks towards me. He gestures to the letter.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Mi...Mimi dropped it off. She left."  
  
He nods. "I know. You ok?"  
  
I look at him with my head tilted, thinking. "You know what?" He shrugs. "I think I am."  
  
He smiles at me and takes a step closer, but remains cautious. He looks up at me timidly and moves in to hug me. Wrapped up in his embrace, I can barely hear him whisper. "I love you." I tense up the slightest bit and pull back. His eyes tell me he's terrified. I soften and stare into those terrified eyes, trying to make them a little less scared. After about a minute, I realize what needs to be done, and I'm the only one who can do it.  
  
"I love you too." My voice is tired and worn out, but honest. I lean in towards him ever so slowly and finally connect my lips to his.  
  
My stomach drops and my heart begins to beat faster, and we kiss. Slowly, gently, and lovingly. 


	7. A Beautiful Connection

I'm startled awake by a loud bang. Quickly I sit up and rub my eyes, confused and weary. I pull some pajama pants up over my boxers and shuffle out of my room, opening my door and squinting at the bright light invading the loft. I check Mark's room to see he's not there, and in turning to go to the couch, catch a glimpse of him outside, on the fire escape. I walk over to the window and tap lightly on the glass. He turns and looks down, then smiles at me. He nods. I open the window, and climb up to join him.  
  
"Hey." My `morning-voice' is gravelly and tired.  
  
He turns again and leans his elbows on the railing, looking out over Avenue B. "Morning. What are you doing up this early?"  
  
I stand next to him and lean on the fire escape the same way. "The window woke me up."  
  
"Oh, sorry." He doesn't look at me when he speaks, and continues watching the few people walk up and down the practically empty street.  
  
"No biggie. I sleep too late anyway. What are you doing out here?"  
  
"Just...thinking, observing. It's what I do."  
  
"I know. Mind if I join you?"  
  
"Not at all. But go put a shirt on, you must be freezing."  
  
"It's not so bad." I stand a little bit closer to him so our arms are just barely touching. He's still staring down, but I can tell he's starting to smile.  
  
We stand there, together, for a while. We just stare down and watch the street grow busier as time goes by. For that short amount of time, I see exactly what he sees. I understand what made him become a filmmaker, and why a lot of times, he just wants to be alone. I see this whole other side of everything, and it makes me admire him so much, for everything he is, and everything he aspires to be.  
  
Mark hits my arm softly and I look at him. "See that lady down there?" He points to a homeless woman pulling her large bag into an alley.  
  
"Yea?"  
  
"She moves alleys every morning. From that one, to that one, then back to that one again. She goes back and forth, every day. Sometimes I wonder why she keeps changing, when it's the same two alleys. Then I think...it doesn't matter. She just does, and that's what makes life so...beautiful. You know?"  
  
I'm speechless. He's never opened up to me like that. Of course he's told me his feelings, he's cried on my shoulder, he's asked for my advice. But he has never, ever, just let me into his mind like that before. I don't know what to say, or how to respond to his insight, and so all I can do is nod. I clear my throat and speak, still not totally recovered from my surprise. "Wow...Mark...you're so..."  
  
He interrupts me with a smile and a joke. "Smart? Funny? Good looking? Sexy?" He makes faces and nudges my arm with his elbow.  
  
I smile, but shake my head. "You're so..." I shrug and try to think of an appropriate word. "you."  
  
Mark continues to try and joke around, making modest faces and laughing, but I can sense a blush creeping into his cheeks. Listening to my inner voice, I can't help but lean in and kiss him.  
  
He kisses back, but neither of us allow it to get too deep. It's only been a few days since our...confessions, and we've taken it really slow. The extent of our...relationship...if that's what you want to call it, is mostly a lot of talking and extra support from both of us. We both know something will happen, but we're both intelligent enough to realize we need time.  
  
We pull away from the kiss and he looks at me, not smiling, but with a very content expression. His hand is resting on my bare arm and he looks at the connection almost sheepishly. As if to reassure him, I slide my arm out of his grasp, but stop when my hand reaches his, and I squeeze it. We both silently turn back towards the street, still holding hands. We lean on the railing so both our inside forearms are crossed, his closest to my body, and mine to his, our fingers interlocked.  
  
I used to wonder how people could be in the quiet for such long amounts of time, with no music, no conversation. Right then, I realize if I had a choice of having the most successful band on earth, or standing on that fire escape with him, silent, for the rest of my life, I'd pick the latter.  
  
I think a few minutes before breaking the silence. "How do you know?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"How do you know she switches alleys every day?"  
  
"I see her."  
  
"Every morning?"  
  
"Yea."  
  
"I never knew."  
  
"You sleep late."  
  
"I know..."  
  
"It's ok."  
  
"I think I should have..."  
  
"It's ok."  
  
I'm amazed by him. It's the only explanation. I haven't even said anything and he understands that this makes me sad. It makes me feel like a bad friend, that this is something he does every day, and I never even knew. How much else don't I know about him? 


	8. It's a Little More Believable When We To...

I peek through the crack in Mark's closed door. I see him sitting up on his bed, but I tap anyway, to get his attention, if for no other reason. He looks up from his notebook and motions for me to enter.  
  
"C'mon in."  
  
"You're not too busy?" Ever since I barged in on him that day, I've tried to be more careful. I know he needs his alone time, and his work time, so I try to be a little more respectful.  
  
"Not at all." He drops his notebook to the floor on the other side of his bed and turns back to me. "What's up?" His eyes focus on me in that way that tells me I have his undivided attention.  
  
I shrug. "Not much, just wanted to...hang out? Is that ok? Honestly, if you're busy...we can talk later."  
  
"No way, come on, sit with me."  
  
"Ok." I nod and sit on his bed so my feet are near his pillows and I'm facing him. We sit in silence for a moment before either of us says anything.  
  
"So, what did you want to talk about?"  
  
"Oh...nothing in particular, just bored."  
  
He smiles. I love seeing him smile. I love being the one to make him smile.  
  
"I hear that." Yet again, neither of us talk, the awkward silence bearing down on me like some sort of lethal gas. "So...heard from Mimi yet?"  
  
"Nah. Not yet."  
  
"Oh."  
  
I look down and can't help fidgeting with the sheets. Through 5 years of friendship, we have never run out of things to say to each other. Suddenly, we're struck with this...nothingness. I can feel my age-old fear of silence coming back to me as I search the walls for a good spot to stare at. Mark's eyes finally catch mine and he seems to be pleading with me, for what, I don't know. Again I try to avoid the awkwardness.  
  
"Fuck this." Quickly, I reposition so we're both on the same side of the bed, and I begin to kiss him. This time, I forget about not letting it get too deep, and I can tell he's forgotten about it too. Something inside us connects and I feel my heart beating faster and faster as we add pressure. Eventually we begin to bull apart, mutually ceasing the kiss.  
  
Mark's always been a detached person, and no one could ever really get to the point of understanding him completely, not even me. Little did I know how much he was hiding in his safe little corner. If I had known what a kiss with Mark would be like, I would have found my song a long time ago.  
  
"Roger..."  
  
"Yea?"  
  
"Oh, you were spacing out a little there."  
  
Goddamn all my pathetic excuses. I'm sick of making up reasons to keep things slow, to keep things safe. "I love you Mark."  
  
He smiles and shakes his head at me. "I know."  
  
"Good." He doesn't have to say it back. He's been saying it back in his own little ways for the past 4 years.  
  
He lays flat on his back and stares up at the ceiling. I decide to lay also, and I watch our chests rise and fall simultaneously.  
  
"Roger?"  
  
"Uh huh?"  
  
"I love you too."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Thanks?"  
  
"Yea."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"For sticking with me. For being my best friend. For loving me."  
  
"Hey...I can't help it."  
  
I smile. "Thanks."  
  
Our breathing slows and I'm on the verge of sleep.  
  
"Roger?"  
  
"Yea?" I just barely hear him through my fatigue.  
  
"You're welcome." 


	9. Where Does The Wound Begin?

I walk past the kitchen table to grab a beer from the fridge, and notice the mail's in. Mark must have picked it up before he left for his meeting. I sift through the envelopes. There's only a few, and they're all junk. A package is sitting there, opened. I flip one of the flaps over to see Mark's mom's return address. Of course. I prepare myself for another useless kitchen appliance and look inside the box. Instead of the usual Mrs. Cohen Original, however, there's just a stack of papers with a letter on top.  
  
'Mark- I found these and figured you might want to take a look at them, didn't want to throw them away without your permission. Enjoy sweetie, call me.  
  
Love, Mom'  
  
I move the letter onto the table and begin skimming over the papers. They're all old pictures and papers Mark did when he was little. Interested, I bring the box over to the couch and sit down, pulling the stack onto my lap. On the top is mostly schoolwork, aced spelling tests and math quizzes. As I get deeper into the pile, the graded papers turn into pictures, at first drawings of houses and dogs and 'still life's obviously set up by what was probably a first grade art teacher. After these the drawings are seemingly done for fun. They look like storyboards, and I cant help but smile to myself, they remind me so much of Mark's current sketches he integrates into his notes, reminding him what he wants any particular scene to look like. After all the schoolwork and drawings, is one photograph. A copy of a professionally shot family picture. Mr. And Mrs. Cohen stand behind their two children. Mark's dark tinted hair is neatly parted and Cindy's blonde curls are perfectly in place. Her blue eyes noticeably glow. So do Mrs. Cohens. And Mr. Cohens. Mark's light brown eyes are dull, yet piercing, different. I place the stack back into its box. Until now, I haven't noticed the name written on the lines on the tops of these papers. The first one says "Mark Jameson". So does the second, and the third, and the fourth. They all do. I look through every single paper again, until I find one with the name "Mark Cohen" written on it. It's a simple drawing, of what seems to be a family. A small figure hunches in the corner, with crayon brown hair. A figure at least three times as large looms over him, with dark hair and prominent blue eyes. An average sized depiction stands on the other side of the paper, holding what seems to be a baby. The background of the entire picture is scribbled in red. I read the note from Mark's mom a couple more times, and decide the only thing left to do is wait for him to come home, then figure out what this is all about. Minutes later, the doorknob jiggles and I hear it open.  
  
"Hey Mark?"  
  
"Yea?"  
  
"What is this stuff?"  
  
"What is what stuff?"  
  
"This stuff...that your mom sent."  
  
He looks over my shoulder at the pile. "Oh. It's nothing...just old school stuff. She thought I'd want it."  
  
"Why do they all say Mark Jameson?"  
  
"What can I say, I was a quirky kid."  
  
"Oh." I'm confused, but I know him well enough to let it go. If I pry, he'll get mad, in turn I'll get mad, and it won't be pretty. "You still are."  
  
He smiles and picks the box up, bringing it into his room. Through the doorway I see him sit on the bed and leaf through every paper separately, as if examining the validity of each one. He stares at the papers for another couple minutes before I walk towards his room and stand in the doorway, leaning on the frame. I can tell he hears me at the door, his head pulls up slightly, but he never looks back at me. Every paper he holds seems to stay in his hand longer than the last. His face is twisted in a struggle somewhere between honesty and façade. He drops each paper listlessly into another pile and then reaches to take a sheet from the other. The discard stack grows larger than the original, Mark looks down to notice his finger is dotted with blood from a paper cut. He acknowledges it, but continues sifting, not bothering to even wipe the small wound. After going through the entire box, he holds the family portrait in his hand and looks up at me with the most honest, unprotected eyes I've ever seen. He searches my face for any hint of understanding, compassion, reassurance. Those sharp brown eyes have displayed so many emotions in their time, and all I can see now is pain, and hurt, and fright. He's scared. There's something he's scared to tell me.  
  
"I'm adopted." 


	10. Childhood of Faceless Fathers

A/N: this chapter picks up right where the last one left off, so go back and re-read if you don't remember and it'll confuse you =D  
  
"What?" My voice cracks with surprise. What was supposed to come out as a shout exits my mouth as more of a throaty whisper.  
  
"I'm adopted." Mark looks sullenly down at the photo and stares intently.  
  
I don't know what to say to him. How could I not have known? "Why didn't you tell me?" I silently tread over to the bed and move some papers in order to sit across from him.  
  
He gives me a half shrug with his left shoulder and responds nonchalantly. "I've never told anyone."  
  
"No one?"  
  
He shakes his head slowly, still keeping his eyes downcast at the portrait. "Never."  
  
"Oh my God...Mark...I'm so sorry." I'm still in shock, and I'm sure my face shows it. I don't know how to react. I want to be angry that he never told me, but on the other hand, he's never told anyone. This has to be hard for him.  
  
He finally lifts his head, allowing our eyes to meet. "There's nothing to be sorry about, it's not your fault." His voice is so...flat, emotionless. He sounds as if he's become completely numb to the topic.  
  
"I know. I don't know what to say. Can we talk about this?"  
  
He shrugs again. "I guess. What do you want to know?"  
  
I try to restrain my curiosity, but can't help wanting to know everything. "When? Why haven't you told anyone? Why haven't you told me?"  
  
He pauses and pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs and locking his fingers. He sits like that whenever he's sad, or nervous, or scared. "I guess I should start from the beginning..."  
  
I nod supportively, moving closer to him and warming his grasped hands with my own. "Before you start...Mark?"  
  
He looks to me naively. "Yea?"  
  
"I'm here." I squeeze his hands lightly. "I'm right here."  
  
He nods and gives me a scaled down version of his adorable, lopsided smile. "They adopted me when I was six...they thought-"  
  
"Wait, six years old? Where were you before that?"  
  
He looks down at our hands, as mine rub his soothingly. "Lots of places. I was born somewhere in New Jersey. I went from foster home to foster home till I was six." He shrugs. "Probably like three in total."  
  
I watch his face as he tells me everything. He speaks with almost no emotion, as if it's a story about someone else. Instead of breaking down and crying and venting, as I had expected, he talks flatly, recounting everything as completely factual as he can.  
  
"After six years, I ended up in Scarsdale. My-" He pauses and looks behind me before continuing. "My mom didn't think she could have kids so...that's where I came in. That same year, she found out she could, and had Cindy. It happens a lot I guess, some psychological thing."  
  
I'm speechless. This is Mark. My best friend of five years. The man I've fallen in love with. I feel like I don't know anything about him.  
  
He slips his hands out from under mine and pulls on his sleeves, hiding them. I can see his fingers playing with the cloth from underneath. I don't know what to do with my empty hands, and resort to running my fingers through my hair, and resting them under my chin. He concentrates on his covered hands and bites his lower lip.  
  
"Mark I'm so sorry...I feel like I don't know you."  
  
"I'm the same person, nothing's changed."  
  
"I know but...how could I not have known?"  
  
"I've never told anyone. I'm only telling you because...you're the first person I want-" He takes a deep breath. "I want you to know me."  
  
I watch his eyes dart around the room, desperately avoiding my gaze. I scan his face thoroughly, searching for any hint of sorrow. Instead of the teary eyes I'm expecting, a shielded face with the lightest tinge of hurt stares back at me.  
  
"Why did you think you had to hide it from everyone?"  
  
"I didn't think I had to. I wanted to."  
  
I shake my head, confused. "Why?"  
  
"How would that reflect on me? My birth parents didn't want me, no one else wanted me for the next six years, my—the Cohens only took me because they felt bad. Add that to the rejections of Cindy, Maureen, and production studios? That's all I need, a better track record."  
  
He speaks quickly, but his voice still remains emotionless, numb.  
  
"First of all, there are plenty of reasons people give up their babies. It had nothing to do with you. Second, who ever said your paren—the Cohens—only took you in because they felt bad? That's ridiculous! What would make you-"  
  
"My father."  
  
I stop sharply. "What?"  
  
"He told me that...the truth...every time we fought. Every time I told him he wasn't my real father, he'd kindly explain he never even wanted to be my adopted father. He'd tell me he never wanted anything to do with me, that it was my mother's idea and he just went along with it."  
  
"Mark, he was mad...people say things-"  
  
"Not like this. Nothing gets you mad enough to denounce loving your own child, adopted or biological. Nothing makes you say that, unless it's true."  
  
I'm completely speechless. The unavoidable truth of his statement drills into my brain. He's opens his mouth and closes it just as quickly a couple times before speaking again.  
  
"You know, he never hit me. Not like everyone thinks. I'm not that weak. I don't take that type of shit. He did hit me, once. I remember, I told him I was glad he wasn't my real father, 'cause I didn't have his genes, then I told him I pitied Cindy because she was his. He hit me as soon as I mentioned her name."  
  
I just sit and stare. I'm entranced by him, his ability to tell a story, and the obvious effect this has had on him. "I was seventeen. That night, I was on a train for the city."  
  
This all started with Mark telling me softly what happened to him. It's escalated into twenty years of frustration and betrayal and hurt, finally pushing it's way out of him, turning into words that begin to spew faster and more emotionally as he continues...seemingly talking to himself.  
  
"I couldn't mention her without getting yelled at. God forbid I did better than her at anything. They wouldn't admit it. Even my mom would twist things around until Cindy was right, or better, or perfect. God, she was perfect. She still is perfect. Married, at twenty, to the football stud. I mean hell, she's got kids. Twins. How cute."  
  
Bitter thoughts are soon replaced by an explanation. I never have understood just how his mind works. "Oh and that name thing? On the papers? I was so firm in the belief that I would always be a Jameson. That's how I was born, and that's how I was gonna stay. All of first grade, I refused to write Cohen. That wasn't me. That was them. After plenty of visits to the school psychologist, I think I gave up on that. I was a Cohen. I should have been proud. That's what my dad told me. 'Cohen's are strong. Cohen's don't give up. Cohen's try their hardest. Cohen's succeed.' So I took the name, but by those statutes, I'm still a Jameson a hundred percent. Giving up on anything and everything."  
  
During his rant, Mark has gotten up and begun pacing the room in front of me. I wonder if he notices I'm still here. But I think this is good for him. For twenty years he's hidden who he is, how he feels about this life- altering situation. Maybe this will help him clear up some issues.  
  
Mark continues stalking back and forth as it hits me. All this time I've wondered why he seems so detached, lonely, unwanted. This makes sense. He was rejected, ignored, and pitied, all within the first six years of his life. Everything comes together with one big click in my head. Shit, they fucked him up good.  
  
Almost five minutes later, he emits an exhausted sigh and plops back on the bed, leaning his head on my shoulder.  
  
"I'm sorry for going off like this...I've just never verbalized any of it..."  
  
"Believe me, it's ok. I'm glad I know how you feel...I'm glad you could let it out."  
  
I feel him nod. "Me too."  
  
We sit in silence for a while, leaving me to think of all the ways this changes him...us. Suddenly, an argument we had only two weeks ago echoes in my head.  
  
'You wouldn't know what being unwanted IS Mark, so stop telling me how I feel. You grew up in some big house with your perfect parents and your perfect sister and your perfect life. Stop acting like some neglected little ORPHAN! You don't know how fucking good you had it.'  
  
"Mark, all those times I said things-"  
  
His emotionless state returns to him as the anger slips away and the sorrow resumes control. "You couldn't have known. You assumed. It's all you had, all anyone had. It's not your fault."  
  
I'm not going to fight him on this. It's taken so much strength just to tell me, I'm not going to make him delve back into his past.  
  
"You ok?"  
  
"Yea...I'm alright. Can I just, be alone for a little while?"  
  
"Of course." I kiss him gently before walking out and softly shutting the door. I sigh deeply and run my fingers through my hair. I slowly stroll over to sit on the floor next to the window, so I can smoke and without polluting the rest of the loft. I know how much it agitates Mark. I light a cigarette and eventually make my way out to the fire escape. I'm left alone with the brisk air, a thin stream of smoke, and the knowledge that my best friend kept a secret from me for five years. He also just told me. The first person he's ever told. I finish my cigarette, staying in the cool air for another minute before climbing back into the loft. Mark's going to need some time to deal with this, so I knock softly on his door and crack it open.  
  
"Hey Mark?" I call softly through the small opening in the doorway.  
  
He turns quickly from the bed, and I see him try to discreetly wipe his eye. He's not wearing his glasses. "Yea?"  
  
"I'm gonna go do some errands, I'll be back in a little while, k?"  
  
"Ok. I'll see ya."  
  
"You need anything?"  
  
"No I'm fine."  
  
"K, later." I shut the door lightly and check to make sure my wallet's in my pocket, grabbing my jacket on the way out of the loft. 


	11. Making it Matter is Harder than Making i...

I walk swiftly, more by habit than necessity. I swing by the Food Emporium quickly, just to pick up a few extra things. Mark could use some comfort food right now. I navigate my way through the aisles, obviously not used to food shopping. I manage to grab some instant mashed potatoes and grape soda. It's Mark's thing. His food. The stuff he eats after every rejection, every funeral, every time he ends up in a hospital cafeteria. I get a pack of cigarettes and get to a register. After my shopping is completed, I take a walk to give Mark a little more time to himself. Two city blocks later, I enter our building and climb the six flights of stairs to the loft. I ease the door open and place the Food Emporium bag on the table, making sure to slip the box of cigarettes into my pocket first. I peek through the crack of Mark's closed door to see him curled up and facing the other side of the room, breathing lethargically. I toe my way around the bed, sitting on the edge of the side he's facing. Contrary to my belief, he's not asleep, just lying quietly with his eyes open, tears staining his face and his hands clutching at the blanket. I rub his arm and lean in towards his ear.  
  
"Hey Mark."  
  
He blinks and looks up at me. His voice cracks with exhaustion. "Hey. You're back."  
  
"Yup. I got you something."  
  
"You did?"  
  
"Mmhmm. Mashed potatoes and grape soda. The potatoes are instant...but I thought they'd be better than anything I attempted to cook."  
  
He smiles through the salty tracks on his face. "Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome. You want me to heat them up for you? Get you some soda?"  
  
He shakes his head. "Later." He looks down in consideration, then up again. "Roger?"  
  
"Yea?"  
  
"Do you think you could...would you...can you just stay with me? Hold me?" His tone is completely sincere, begging me to comfort him.  
  
"Of course. Of course Mark." I climb onto the bed behind him, my arms wrapping around his waist, fitting perfectly. I snuggle my chin into his shoulder, just being with him, hoping he can fathom the amount of me with which I love him. I move my arm so I can wipe the residue of his tears off his face. "Mark?"  
  
His voice is tired and soft. "What?"  
  
"You know...you know I love you, right? You know that I would do anything for you. That I've spent way too long denying you...denying us. You know that I am going to use all the time I have left to be with you, because that's what I want. Because no matter what they did to you, no matter who didn't want you, I do. I want you, and I always will. You know that, right?"  
  
Mark shifts in my arms so he's facing me, and fresh tears have replaced the dried streams. Seemingly speechless, he nods and smiles through his tears. His cold fingers grasp at my shirt and hold on, needing my warmth and my love. Most of all, I think he needs my need. He needs to know that I'm here, and that I need him, even if no one else does.  
  
Unable to think of anything else, I decide it's time to see him laugh, smile at the least. I kiss his nose and sing softly. "I love you Marky, oh yes I do, I love you Marky, and I'll be true. When you're not near me, I'm blue, oh Marky I love you."  
  
He can't help but laugh as he wipes his face and sniffles. "You are such a dork."  
  
"Never thought you'd find anyone as nerdy as you huh?"  
  
"Hey!" He half-heartedly pushes my shoulder and wipes his nose again. "I'm not a nerd."  
  
I smile and push his hair out of his eyes. "Yes you are. But you're a very cute nerd." I kiss him gently on the lips, my sole intentions in comfort, but he pulls me into something deeper. He breaks away after a moment and smiles.  
  
"I'm sick of being sad."  
  
"Good." I return to our kiss, making it into more than the last one. He kisses me back, but stops it after a minute.  
  
"Actually...think I could get some of those potatoes now?"  
  
I smile and climb off the bed. "Sure. Care to help me cook?"  
  
"Think I'd let you do it alone, then eat it?" He promptly follows me out of the room and into the kitchen, getting milk for the mix. He holds up a very empty bottle and cocks his head to the side. "Forget something at the store?"  
  
"Aw shit. Of course. Can I ever just get something done in one try?" I grab my jacket from the chair. "So, you coming with me?"  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
He's cheered up considerably already, and seems to have forgotten earlier conversations. Usually I would worry about his bouncing back so quickly, but at this point, he's happy, and that's all I really care about.  
  
We casually start the trek to the Food Emporium. It's not the closest thing to us, but it's the cheapest, so we deal. It's the first time I've walked down this street with him, and had the urge to just walk a little bit closer. I casually and subtly brush my hand against his, slowly taking hold and walking with our fingers interlocked. He coughs and slips his hand away from mine in order to cover his mouth. Instead of returning to our previous position, however, he puts his hand in the pocket of his jacket, declining to mention that anything had changed. I look to him for an explanation, but he just continues walking.  
  
"You ok?"  
  
"Yea, fine. Why?"  
  
"You just...nothing."  
  
"Oh...k."  
  
We reach the supermarket and enter quietly. I follow Mark to the refrigerated section, searching for the cheapest milk available. He opens the case and stands in front of it, scanning the shelves. I stand close behind him and wrap my arms around his neck. He tenses in my grasp and leans in to grab a carton of milk, ducking out of my embrace. I catch his hand as he tries to walk away and pull him back towards me.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing, nothing's wrong." He gives me a small smile and begins to head down an aisle.  
  
I follow after him, speaking in a low, quick voice. "First you didn't want to let me hold your hand, now you won't let me hug you in public. What's going on?"  
  
"I just...Roger it's weird, ok?" He spins and steps closer to me, not wanting to be heard. "I'm sorry and I don't love you any less, but it's just weird for now. People..."  
  
"People," I step closer to him "are assholes. Let them think what they think. I don't care."  
  
"But I do. And I know I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't care what other people think. But I'm sorry, I do."  
  
I don't say anything, just nod to his statement. Mark's been through more today than in the last month, meaning I'm not going to make it any more difficult. He stares at me, searching for some hint of my reaction, but I simply keep to his preference and step back from him. I walk quietly towards the register, subdued in manner. We don't speak throughout the duration of our walk back, and I stay about a foot away from his side. I'm not angry. Disappointed in a way, but not angry. My hands have been stuffed in my pockets, leaving Mark to carry the milk. We are within two blocks of the loft, and remain in awkward silence. I notice he keeps turning his face to look at me, but I continue walking, with nothing to say to him. After almost a block of interspersed sideways glances, I notice Mark subtly moving closer to me. While waiting for the light, I feel a tug at my arm, and he pulls my hand out of its pocket. He looks straight ahead, but smiles slightly as he squeezes my hand. We continue to the loft, fingers interlocked. 


	12. All I Wanted was to Be Brought to My Kne...

Disclaimer: you know the drill...blaaah blah blah.  
  
A/N: for becca and cj. Without them, this story would have remained on hiatus (where it was having a wonderful time...went to Hawaii without me...) for a long, long time. Hmm…now that I think about it, that may have been a better choice. Crap. Let me know what you think. Oh yea. The title is for Joanne, Cj, and Shana (even though I know the latter won't read this)  
  
I sit alone on the worn couch, bored out of my mind. Mark is at Maureen and Joanne's place, most undoubtedly listening to some awful performance-artist- war-story, and hating every minute of it. He had wanted me to come, but I pretended to still be asleep when he tried to wake me up. No offense to him, I love being with him...just...not there. Our VCR clock doesn't work, so I can't even count the minutes that pass me by...just stare at a blinking "12:00" until it becomes so blurry it doesn't even say "12:00" anymore. Normally, I'd be writing or playing, I just don't feel up to it. I force myself to stand and shuffle over to our meager entertainment system. I switch on the remote-less television, and am greeted with static. The luxury of East Village living hasn't quite hit me yet. I fumble under the stand for the set, scanning for a halfway decent movie to watch. In rearranging videos, searching for the copy of The Godfather I know we have, I stumble across Mark's notepad. The first page is full, and alludes to more on the inside. My conscience screams out, like a blaring security alarm. I hesitate in picking it up, but for some reason I feel inclined to read it. I also realize that it probably couldn't be any more life-altering than the last time I had read through his notebook. I know I shouldn't, but I do anyway. I skip through pages of scrawlings and scribbles and cross- outs until I see a neatly organized list. The list has no title, but starts immediately at the top of the page with bullets for each item. I look closer and skim my way down.  
  
-the way his sweatshirt smells  
  
-the way he's still holding me when I wake up  
  
-the way he flops onto the couch when he's tired  
  
-the look on his face when he has no clue what I'm talking about  
  
-the way he knows when I have no clue what he's talking about, so he just kisses me and keeps talking  
  
-the way he holds his guitar  
  
-the way he tries to protect me  
  
-the way his hair looks after a shower  
  
-the way he knows I'm watching his face while we kiss, but he doesn't say anything  
  
The list continues on, and I don't know what to say. It is possibly the single most amazing thing he's done for me, even though I wasn't even supposed to see it. I think about the exercise, then flip to a clean page and begin writing. After a few thoughts, they keep flowing and I have trouble getting them all down on paper. When I'm done, I rip out the sheet and put the notebook back where I found it. I walk into Mark's room and drop the paper on his bed before returning to my own. He'll find it when he gets home.  
  
-the way he looks in his glasses  
  
-the way he makes the coffee  
  
-the way he pretends not to know he's cute  
  
-the way he babbles when he's excited  
  
-the way I can listen to him for hours even when I don't know what it means, just because it's important to him  
  
-the way he puts up with me  
  
-the way he keeps his eyes open when we kiss, and I can feel him watching me  
  
-the way I would have been dead years ago if it weren't for him  
  
The list continues on, and I pick at my guitar quietly while it waits to be read.  
  
A little over an hour later, I'm still sitting on my bed, now resorted to strumming old songs, rather than picking out my own. I can hear the door to the loft thud as it closes, and footsteps head towards my door. It opens slightly and Mark's head pops in.  
  
"Hey." He's a little out of breath from the stairs, and his face is flushed.  
  
"Hey. How was it?"  
  
"Eh...ok." He retreats into his own room and continues the conversation through the thin walls. "Maureen's planning some new scheme, Joanne's trying to get me to sign on for some commercial thing for her firm...it's some sort of..." He stops, his sentence trailing off. I figure that he's found the list, so I strum random chords, pretending not to notice. I begin fitting them into some sort of pattern when Mark comes through the door, list in hand. His facial expression is a little different than what I had expected.  
  
"What the hell is this?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I can't believe you."  
  
I'm thoroughly confused. I thought it was nice...romantic even. Apparently he doesn't think the same way. I stare at him blankly, waiting for an explanation, for something.  
  
"You read my shit. Again. Did I not make it clear to you that my work is personal, and that I don't want you looking through it?"  
  
"I..."  
  
"You what?"  
  
I remain silent.  
  
"That's what I thought. No pathetic excuses for why you went through my stuff after I told you not to. Jesus Christ Roger!"  
  
"Mark...it wasn't even anything important!"  
  
"Not important? Oh right, not important at all. Just like Your Eyes wasn't important. Because if I had read the lyrics to that before you'd ever played it, you wouldn't have cared, right?"  
  
He stands directly in front of me, panting and staring with his hurt, accusing, angry eyes. I've never felt this small, this...wrong. But do I admit defeat? Of course not.  
  
"God damn it Mark, it was just sitting there. If you don't want your shit read, don't leave it out."  
  
"It doesn't matter where it is! It's mine! You have no right to even touch it, never mind read it!"  
  
"What, I can't even touch your stuff now?" At the same time I'm trying to make some ridiculous point, he starts in on me.  
  
"That's not the point! Shit Roger, you just don't get it!"  
  
We argue at each other for a couple minutes, neither of us really knowing, or caring, what the other is saying. At what seems to be the peak of our argument, we're startled into silence by the ringing phone. I'm glad for the interruption, and storm out to pick up the receiver before we can screen, thus giving reason to shorten the break and continue our shouting match.  
  
"Hello?" I answer, sounding snappy and gruff.  
  
"Roger?" Great.  
  
"Mrs. Cohen, how are you?" Mark snaps to attention.  
  
"I'm good, thank you. Now where have you two boys been? Busy, or just screening?"  
  
"Oh you know Mark," I say deliberately, stepping further away from him as we speak. "Always has to know who's calling."  
  
"Hmm. I see his mother's phone call isn't a priority."  
  
For some reason, I feel a tightening inside me when she says 'his mother'. I didn't think it would bother me this much, but I feel like she's some random stranger, and it angers me to hear her so arrogantly refer to herself as 'his mother'.  
  
"Actually, had his mother called, I'm sure it would have been a top priority." Mark rages towards me, ready to rip the phone out of my hand and most likely shove it somewhere unwanted and unwelcome. However, I shoot him a glance to let him know he can calm down, I won't say anything that bad.  
  
"Excuse me? I've called countless times, no one picks up!" She seems offended, and rightly so.  
  
"I know you called. All I said was that had his mother actually called, he would have been sure to answer."  
  
"What are you suggesting?" Her effort to keep things pleasant is slowly fading.  
  
"I'm not suggesting anything. It's true, isn't it? You're not Mark's mother."  
  
"I'm going to assume he told you. I may not be his biological mother, but I am, in all respects, his mother."  
  
She infuriates me, and I realize why Mark avoids her at all costs. She doesn't know anything about being a mother. God, she doesn't know anything about Mark, yet she continues to demand her rights.  
  
"Bullshit. Being a mother means taking care of your children. And I don't mean food and clothing and a seven hundred thousand dollar house. I mean caring. Making sure your child knows he's loved."  
  
It's silent for a few seconds. Mrs. Cohen is presumably baffled, and Mark's staring at me. I can't tell if he's angry.  
  
"What on earth makes you think I didn't love Mark? You have no right to just pretend-"  
  
"I don't have to pretend anything. You really love him? You know what real love is?"  
  
"Of course I do, I-"  
  
"But you're disappointed in him."  
  
"I-"  
  
"Right? You're disappointed in your son. The one you claim to love so much."  
  
Mrs. Cohen hesitates, planning her response. " I am not disappointed in him. I am disappointed in his situation."  
  
"Oh, his situation. Ok. What about it? That he's broke? That he's not commercially successful? That he's in a relationship with another man? That he's not Cindy?"  
  
"What did you just say?"  
  
"That he's not Cindy."  
  
"No. Before that."  
  
"Oh, that he's in a serious, romantic relationship with another man?"  
  
Mark can't stop gaping at me, the look on his face somewhere between laughter and disbelief. I think he's finally given up on caring about what his parents think.  
  
"That is absolutely ridiculous. Mark's not gay."  
  
"That may be true. But either way, he's in love with a man."  
  
"And how would you presume to know that?"  
  
"Because I love him too."  
  
"That's absurd. Mark would never-"  
  
"Hey. Love it or leave it." I hang up the phone before she can respond, and turn to face Mark.  
  
He's still shrouded in disbelief, and as I prepare for him to yell louder and longer than before, he strides towards me and plants a firm kiss on my lips.  
  
"You're forgiven."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"How can I possibly stay mad at you after that? That was the most...ridiculous thing I have ever heard. You know she's frantically calling my dad right now."  
  
"Didn't you know? It's protocol. A gay son requires at least two phone calls and one face to face interaction without the child. There will be countless others with you present."  
  
He sighs disgustedly. "Great."  
  
I step closer to him, the conversations seemingly over. "So."  
  
"So. Nice try. We're not through with our discussion."  
  
"Oh." Damn.  
  
"Just...don't touch my stuff unless you ask and I say it's ok...alright?"  
  
I might as well concede. "Yea. I'm sorry."  
  
  
  
A/N: sorry about the abrupt ending and such...I'm not quite sure where this is going as of yet, and I'm just trying to get this chapter off my mind. Thanks for being so patient...if you're really nice and review, there might be a few more little somethin'-somethin's popping up sometime soon. 


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